Strange

a bottle of wine
a sonorous rhyme
an hour of what it can be

Sunchild, mild, soft-trodden girlfriend, wild angel, my animal. You come ready into me, and I withstand all I can. Your power transcends my spectacle. How can I impress your most imaginative heart? All my ageless dreaming ends in emerald shallows before you. How can I implore your passion, I who would sustain you? I am milk under the mountain.

Gentle, I would lay all my ignorance down. Be rid of all embarrassment at once. Fires humiliate me, my skin shrinks. I am post, declaring laundry.

Worm wriggling under this enchantment, smile delivered from unknowing, ghost testing passage, -- you are all my strange inspirers. Lights that shock and show no reason, -- you are my provocation. The question that I feel is the reason for my loving.

But I am struck with grave misgivings.

Some gross consideration thus disturbs my liberal attitude.

Can everyone enjoy this moment, as subtle and as odd? I want to know.

And is it snobbery, if I alone, or of a few, delight in this?

Is it, perhaps, some deliberate pretentiousness?

Or are we of a kind, however misaligned,
do we find a separate joy in equal oddities?

Are we fools to one another,
while masters in our minds?

Do we translate the same dream
into vague, disparate signs?